Prisoners of the Storm

Prisoners of the storm, Dulce and I watch and listen to our keeper. Rivulets form on the window; the wind howls at the corners of our shelter; menacing clouds roll over the mountains to the West, an evil presence that will soon envelope us. Eyes, brown and blue, survey the desert landscape. Bare, squat, thorny mesquite trees wave stiffly in the breeze. Dry grasses bow to the earth sweeping the dense brown crust.  As the rain increases, shallow streams form, obediently following the Tao of least resistance. Birds urgently seek protection in heaps of brush. Though the rain still falls, the sun breaks through–the Devil is beating his wife? A rainbow appears, Roy G. Biv, messenger of God's promise.

She knows none of this. She continues to stare though there is nothing to interest her. No coyotes to growl away; no javelina at which to lunge; no rabbits to race. She has no name for tree or bird. She can sense the rain, but it has no meaning for her. The scene through the window is what it is. At last she grows tired, rests her great jaw on my thigh and sleeps. My experience is surely richer for language to impart meaning which may be preserved and shared. But what wouldn't I give for a glimpse of the world with her innocent brown eyes --a vision pure, unadorned, immediate.

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January 2010 - Hereford, AZ
(photo by Judy Rupel)